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BY 



Harriette Kershaw Leiding. 



WITH 

Music and Illustrations 



Charleston, .'. South Carolina. 
1910 






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?HE streets of this quaint, old Southern City are teeming 
with sights and sounds of interest to those in whom 
Famiharity has not "bred contempt." To a stranger 
nothing is so amusing or unintelligible as the various 
cries of the hucksters as they ply their street trade, en- 
deavoring to inform the "world and his wife" concerning their 
wares. To an inhabitant of this enchanted old "City by the Sea," 
numerous members of this "Brotherhood of the streets," become 
well-known friends; their several cries, familiar music. 

When asked about themselves these hucksters tell you that 
they come "From up de road" or "Across from Jeems Island, Mam" 
and some from "ober de new bridge" and still others again are 
town negroes who secure their wares "Down at Cantini Wharf and 
Tradd Street Breakwater, my missis." 

They congregate there to receive the boat loads of fresh 
"Vegetubble" and "Swimpy, raw raw." Long before even these en- 
terprising denizens of the sleepy town are up and doing, the 
"Mosquito Fleet" has put to sea while the still, grey dawn is break- 
ing and you hear them sending back in calm weather the long, faint 
cadence of a rowing song; 

"Rosy am a handsome gal ! 
Haul away Rosy — Haul away gal 
Fancy slippers and fancy shawl ! 
Haul away Rosy, Haul — away 
Rosy gwine ter de fancy ball ! 
Haul away Rosy — haul away gal." 

Even in wet or windy weather when the wind is fresh and 
strong, sails are hoisted and silently the fishing fleet flits out like a 
flock of ghostly birds across the harbor, across the bar and out to 
the fishing banks, forty miles away. For these fishing boats are 
manned by intrepid sailors known far and wide for skill and 
daring. 

All of the folk songs have a queer minor catch in them and 
even the street cries have an echo of sadness in their closing 
cadence. Early one morning the usual shrimp "Fiend's" cry of 







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was superceded by a strange, unfamiliar, and piercing sweet cry in 
a boy's faint, clear soprano. Like a little lark this "Jean De Reszke" 
of the small, black world, gave his name and advertised his wares, 
in a voice that made you think of the freshness of dawn across 
dewy fields. He stood under the window and sung : 




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The shrimp are sold early in the morning. When the "Mosquito 
fleet" puts back into port, the fish are hawked about the streets 
and the lusty-lunged fishermen cry then 



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with an ominous voice, that seems to hold in its queer, breaking 
sound a reminder of the days and nights of danger which falls to 
the daily lot of these toilers of the deep who still must put out to 
sea in calm or storm alike, regardless of the death which threatens 
when "The Harbor bar be Moaning." 

All is not sadness, for here and there a quaint bit of human 
nature or glint of humor, shows. For instance, even in the Street 
cry parlance, "The Sex" holds its wonted superiority and you will 
find that "She Crabs," called through the nose of the vender, "She 
Craib, She Craib" bring more money than just ordinary "Raw 
Crabs" — by which distinguished title is meant the less desirable 
male crab. 




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"Old Joe Cole, good old soul," who does a thriving business in 
lower King Street under the quaint sign of "Joe Cole 8c Wife" is the 
bright, particular, tho fast-waning, star of our galaxy of street 
artists. He sets the fashion, so to speak, in "hucksterdom." Joe 
has many imitators but no equals, for he looks hke an Indian Chief, 
walks with a Hmp that would "do a general proud," and uses his 
walking stick as a baton, while bellowing like the "Bull of Bashan." 
It is a never-to-be-forgotten occassion when Joe lustily yells : 

"Old Joe Cole— Good old Soul 

Porgy in the Summer-time 

An e Whiting in the Spring 

8 upon a string. 

Don't be late I'm watin at de gate 

Don't be mad — Heres your shad 

Old Joe Cole— Good Old Soul." 

Porgy, it may be remarked in passing, is a much prized variety of 
chub, and is much esteemed among the colored brethren, "embracin 
of the sisterin," as one old, colored preacher said. 



When asked to sing so that his remarkable cry might be cor- 
rectly reproduced, Joe gravely informed the awe-struck crowd sur- 
rounding him, "Yunna niggers gwan from here now cos little Miss 
done ax me to sing in de megafone so as she can write Me down 
in de white folks' book and she aint ax none ob yunna niggers to 
do dat ting, jest Me.'' And sure enough I did. 

The "Vegetubble" Maumas are wonderful, wide-chested, big- 
hipped specimens of womanhood that balance a fifty pound basket 
of vegetables on their heads and ever and anon cry their goods 




with as much ease and grace as a society lady wears her "Merry 
Widow" hat and carries on a conversation. As these splendid, 
black Hebes come along with a firm, swinging stride you may hear. 




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Perhaps it will vary in season to "Strawberry." While the mascu- 
line rendition of "Strawberry" is put in the following enticing form 






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Or may be that yet again you will be informed that "Sweet Pete 
ate her." Which being interpreted means that they are seUing 
sweet potatoes to the tune of Red Rose Tomatoes, only it sounds 
quite cannibalistic sung thus-wise. 

Amongst all this babble of femininity the mascuHne call of 
"Little John," as he styles himself, comes as a relief to the ear. He 
sings as he wends his way : "Heres your 'Little John' Mam. I got 
Hoppen John Peas Mam ! I got cabbage— I got yaller turnips Mam, 
Oh yes Mam"— and so he comes and you buy what you want and 
on he goes still singing what he's "got" to sell. "I got sweet Petater 
—I got beets; I got Spinach;" and so on like the brook, forever, 
"Little John" sings, his approach marked by the musical sign 
"Crescendo" his retreat by "Diminuendo." 

When I hear "Little John," I think of an old street crier, long 

since dead and gone, whose cry was used to advertise his load of 

water-melons, thusly : 

Load my Gun 

Wid Sweet Sugar Plum 

An Shoot dem nung gal 

One by one 

Barder lingo 

Water-millon. 



Now — SL "nung gal" is "Darkese" for young girl, as you will find out 
when you get a plantation darkey to tell you the ancient rhyme of 
the love affair of the old Oyster Opener and the Young Girl. 

His tragic affair of the heart is briefly told in the dialogue 
which follows : The Old Oyster Opener taking the part of "Ber 
Rabbit." "Ber Rabbit what you de do day"? or as we would say 
"Ber Rabbit what are you doing there"? and "Ber Rabbit" sadly 
answers — "I open de oyster for nung gal. Oyster he bite off ma 
finger an Nung gal he tek me for laugh at." 

It is a curious fact that the Island negroes make no distinction 
in talking, between "he and she" and when "Ber Rabbit" of the 
above says "Young gal He take me to laugh at," the old man gives 
a good illustration of that peculiar trait of their language. 

There is a gentle looking old woman who gives vent to the 
most ferocious and nasal howl of — "come on chilluns and get yer 
monkey meat." 




Should you hear it, do not be alarmed for it heralds nothing worse 
than a harmless, old body selling the childrens' favorite cocoanut 
and molasses candy. 





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This performance is only equalled by the one of the mild, 
antediluvian "Daddy" who gravely thrusts his wooly head into your 
back-gate and emits in an eminently respectful tone of voice the 
following jargon : 




"Enny Yad aigs terday my Miss" which being interpreted 
means — "Do you wish any eggs which my hens have laid in my 
yard and which therefore are fresh eggs Q. E. D. Fresh Yard Eggs. 



In Charleston, even the chimney-sweeps are musical, and as 
their tiny faces appear at the top of the chimney they are sweeping, 
you hear "Roo roo" sung out over the sounds of the street below. 





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Also to this tribe the charcoal boy belongs. He drives into town 
a tiny donkey hitched to a tiny, two-wheeled cart. The cart and load 
are black, the donkey is black, the boy is black and the only other 
color that you can see in the whole outfit is the whites of the boy s 
eyes as he rolls them around and calls the eerie, long-drawn-out 

"Qhar coal." He sounds weird, melancholy and even doomed, 

with his mournful cry of "char-coal." You wonder which is the 
saddest and blackest; the driver, the driven, cart or contents, as they 
wend their solitary and spooky way onward, crying ever that sad, 
minor wail of 



All these interesting things and more too are here, jostling 
your elbow, passing your window, begging your custom and offering 
rich and picturesque effects to those who have "Eyes to see," and 
furnishing a queer, original but fast fading, street symphony to 
those who have "Ears to hear." 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 433 924 1 ^ 



